Bombshells
by roominthecastle
Summary: A collection of one-shots, originally posted on tumblr but relocated here for easier access.
1. London

1 - **LONDON**

******Disclaimer: **not mine.

* * *

He got the news on the phone. Great news, he told her but refused to divulge what it was until they got to the bar. She hasn't seen him this excited before. It spread to her, too, but when he finally told her what the great news was, her smile faltered and her heart sank.

He's going back.

'What?' she asks, brows knitted together. Maybe she heard it wrong. Her stunned expression doesn't faze him, though.

'I'm going back to London, Camille,' he repeats with blinding, boyish glee, seemingly oblivious to her reaction.

His words hit her like a ton of icy bricks. They sting. They hurt. And he just keeps smiling.

'Only for a week, mind you,' he adds somewhat less enthusiastically. 'It's just a training course,' he explains but then his face lights up once again. 'But it's in London.'

She wants to hit him with something blunt and heavy but the relief stifles the urge. It's just a week. Not for good.

'Good old, cold, rainy London,' he says dreamily. 'Although, after all this,' he says, glancing around in a way that's nothing short of offending, 'I doubt one week will be enough. I might be tempted to become AWOL once I get away.'

She manages a tight smile but apparently it isn't convincing enough. Now that his initial excitement is quieting down, the Detective Inspector notices something isn't quite right. His sergeant isn't as happy about the news as he expected her to be – as she should be, really. It is London, after all.

'What's wrong?' he asks just as Catherine arrives to their table with a packed tea tray.

'Nothing,' Camille says, mildly irritated, and takes a sip from the drink he ordered for her a few minutes ago. He was unusually courteous. She should have known it would end badly.

Richard glances at Catherine, hoping she might be of some help. The older woman puts the tray down in front of him. 'Enjoy,' she says with a bright smile. Richard isn't sure what she means: the tea or her daughter's insufferable mood, but Catherine doesn't elaborate. She simply turns to leave.

'Thank you.' For nothing, he mentally adds and frowns. So unhelpful. So… _French_.

Camille is still silent, sipping her cocktail, and he has no idea how to revive this train wreck of a conversation. Maybe a good cup of tea will help.

He reaches for the sugar.

Then the milk.

Then the spoon.

She watches his hands as he prepares his favourite beverage. Such a meticulous, fussy ritual. It's so him. So _English_.

He quietly stirs his tea but his hand stills when she starts slurping her drink. He peers up at her. The noise stops but she doesn't look at him. He shakes his head, then continues his pensive stirring. The slurping resumes. He tries to ignore it. And her.

He tries.

And he fails.

'Is that really necessary?'

'Oh, does it bother you?' she asks, feigning concern.

'Yes.'

'Then it is,' she replies with a smirk and slurps some more.

He lets out an exasperated sigh and his spoon lands on the saucer with a loud clink.

'You are so childish,' he mutters under his breath before taking a sip from his tea.

There's a flash of anger in her eyes. The mute sort. The scariest. So he remains quiet. She finishes her cocktail and pushes the empty glass aside. 'Thanks for the drink,' she says and rises to her feet. He looks at her like a lost puppy but she wills herself to ignore that. He stands up too. He doesn't know what else to do.

'And congratulations,' she adds, then grabs her purse and turns to leave.

'Camille…' He's got no idea what's going on. This was supposed to be a celebration.

She turns back, waiting.

'I…' He trails off. His eyes briefly search the bar for Catherine but she's nowhere to be found. So he looks back at her daughter. 'I thought…'

'What?'

'I thought you'd be happy.'

For some reason it seems to dissolve most of her anger. Now she just looks hurt. 'Good night, Inspector.'

He feels beyond helpless as he watches her walk away. Guilty, too, even though he still doesn't know what he did wrong. He glances at his tea and hesitates.

Then he decides to go after her.

She's still there when he steps out the bar. She stands still, arms crossed, with her back to him.

'Camille.'

She doesn't react. He walks closer and remains by her side, sharing in her wordlessness. It's probably his safest choice. Music starts up in the bar, slowly drawing everybody inside. Soon they are the only ones left on the patio.

'I thought you couldn't wait to get rid of me,' he says and she finally looks at him.

He certainly is the most brilliant idiot she's ever met. 'You thought wrong.'

Silence ensues again. Just as she expected. He's hopeless and she's an idiot, too, for hoping.

But he surprises her. And himself. He steps in front of her and with a sigh, he awkwardly offers his hand – palm up. She isn't sure if he wants to shake hands or…

He clears his throat. 'If my memory serves, I still owe you a dance,' he explains. It's his peace offering, the best he can think of under the circumstances.

And she accepts it. She takes his hand with a small smile. They start towards the door but he halts at the sight. The bar is packed. People are everywhere. She chuckles quietly, then pulls him away. They will be just as fine outside – alone – on the patio.

He's nervous but this time she doesn't need to guide him much. His right arm carefully slides around her waist and his left hand gently closes around her right one, pulling her closer. She rests her head on his shoulder and they slowly sway to the rhythm spilling from inside. His lungs fill with the scent of her hair. She caresses his back, soothing his tension. She waits for him to get comfortable with their closeness, then her hand slips from his. She puts her arms around his neck and his instinctively go around her waist, locking himself in her embrace. She looks him in the eye and he can't tear his gaze away.

He swallows.

She tilts her head.

He blinks.

She leans in.

Their lips brush.

His heart pounds louder than the drums inside.

She kisses him softly.

He kisses back.

It's a silent promise.

One week will be more than enough.


	2. Hunter

2 - **HUNTER**

******Disclaimer: **not mine.

* * *

He's been struggling with a crossword puzzle and doesn't even notice when she approaches his desk. She stands there for a while, hoping he glances up on his own but no such luck.

She sighs, then his voice startles her.

'Five letters, begins with "M." Rare female first name,' he says, eyes still firmly fixed on the paper.

At the very least he's vaguely aware that she's there. Or maybe not. With him it's hard to tell sometimes.

'Mario?' she offers.

He frowns but when he finally looks up, his annoyance evaporates. She didn't have time to go home, so she's changed clothes at the station – and she looks gorgeous.

'Another blind date, I presume,' he says, then forces his attention back to the crossword.

'Yes,' she says with a defeated sigh, backing away a little, so he can get the full picture. 'What do you think?'

He peers up, briefly studying her attire. He won't comment on that, that's for sure. He's already burnt himself once by trying to compliment her. But his gaze lingers on her face. 'I don't think you should go if you don't want to,' he concludes.

There's a spark in her eyes. 'Are you jealous?' she teases.

He quickly resumes staring at the newspaper. 'You've got the option to say no, that's all,' he says, trying to sound dismissive.

She moves closer and leans against his desk. 'Have you met my mother?' When he doesn't respond, she begins fiddling with his briefcase. It was left on his desk when he was about to head home almost two hours ago. Without looking up, he pulls it out of her reach. She frowns, then: 'She made you babysit and you don't even like babies.'

His head snaps up. 'I never said that.'

'Oh, so you do like them?'

He walked into that one. 'I er… yes. I suppose.'

She's not entirely convinced. 'You "suppose"?'

He's desperately trying to escape this conversation. 'I definitely like the idea of them.'

'So do you want to have children of your own?'

He's slightly panicky now. He clears his throat. 'You know what, maybe you should go.'

She chuckles. 'Oh no. No. This is much more fun.'

'No, it isn't,' he says and tries to bury himself in the paper.

She tilts her head, smiling. 'Do I make you uncomfortable, Detective Inspector Poole?'

'Your questions do, Sergeant Bordey,' he says, filling another string of white squares.

He receives no response and when he glances up, she's no longer smiling. He feels a pang of guilt and sighs. 'But to be fair, I'm thousands of miles out of my comfort zone 24 hours a day, so…'

Her smile is back. It pleases him more than he wants to admit.

He glances around, lips pursed, thinking. Then: a decision. He clicks his pen, throws it on the desk and rises to his feet. 'Come on!'

She furrows her brow. 'Where are we going?'

He shrugs on his jacket. 'Well, you've got a date and I want to have a cup of tea before heading home.' He grabs the newspaper and his briefcase. 'I'll walk you.'

* * *

It's not a long walk but her silence makes it feel endless. He never thought it would bother him but it really does now. He sneaks a glance at her and quickly looks away when she sighs.

'How do you get out of doing things your mother wants you to do without, you know, insulting her?' she asks.

'Well, Camille, getting oneself transferred halfway around the world tends to solve this particular problem.' She throws him a look. 'So I have found.'

'That is not an option now,' she says, growing slightly irritated. 'So what is your Plan B?'

'Hmm.' He briefly ponders her question, then: 'I lie,' he admits simply.

She looks at him and he stares back at her. He gets somewhat defensive. 'Don't judge until you meet my mother.'

'Do you plan to introduce me in the near future?' she teases.

His eyebrows go up. 'No, that's not what…' He trails off when he sees her grin. 'Camille.'

She laughs. 'Sorry.'

Silence ensues again. Only their footsteps echo on the road leading up to Catherine's bar. But all of a sudden he halts. 'Marva!' he says.

Camille looks confused and a tad concerned. 'What?'

'Five letters, begins with "M." Rare female first name,' he explains with a tinge of manic joy. 'Marva.' He looks at her. 'Where is it?'

She doesn't understand. 'Where is what?'

'The newspaper. I gave it to you when I locked up.'

'I threw it in the bin.'

He looks at her as if she murdered someone. His temper flares up. 'What?!'

'Don't "what?!" me. I thought you were done with it.'

He opens his mouth to say something - probably something insulting - but under her firm gaze it deteriorates into an irritated, muffled groan. Then he turns around. 'Which bin?' he asks.

She snorts. 'You can't be serious.'

He is.

And it looks like he's about to start walking back but Camille is quicker.

'Oh no.' She grabs his arm and turns him back around. 'No. No. We are not going back.' She tries to calm him. 'I know you've had a tough week.' He has. It's been boring and exceptionally hot. 'But it is just a crossword puzzle, Richard.'

He strongly disagrees. 'I was at it for hours, _literally,_ and with one inconsiderate move of your hand you just denied me the long-awaited satisfaction of finishing it!'

She stares at him mutely for a while, then bursts out laughing.

Somehow it puts a lid on his anger. He sighs. She laughs. 'Fine.' She can't seem to stop. 'Fine,' he repeats and decides against going back to fish the paper out of the bin.

It can wait until tomorrow morning. When no one is around.

They resume walking. Her laughter quiets down but after a few steps she catches him glancing back. 'Don't even think about it,' she warns him. He gives her a sullen look but doesn't try again.

They round the corner and the bar slides into view. Catherine is already waiting outside.

'Well, there's no way I'm lying my way out of this one,' Camille says, her merry mood now completely gone.

He doesn't like it when she laughs at him but he loathes to see her miserable - especially over something as half-witted as a blind date. 'Why's that?' he asks.

'Oh she would know. She knows _everything_.' He has a small smile on his face when she looks at him. 'What?'

'Well, I do like a challenge.'

Camille doesn't have time to ask what he meant by that because Catherine is already by her side. She gives her daughter a quick hug and greets Richard.

'He's here,' she tells Camille, then looks at Richard. 'And I already have the kettle on.'

'That's terribly kind of you, Madame Bordey, but I'm afraid I need your daughter tonight.'

'You do?' Catherine asks.

Camille looks equally surprised but manages to hide it in time.

'Yes. The Hunter case, remember?' he prompts his sergeant and pats his briefcase. It looks full. It is full of books he bought this afternoon but he bets Catherine doesn't know _that_.

'Right,' Camille lies. 'It's this case we're working on,' she tells Catherine. 'A big one.'

Catherine doesn't look very pleased. Nor quite convinced. She narrows her eyes at Richard but he doesn't cave and soldiers on.

'Yes, very nasty, too,' he explains, utilizing his most authoritative DI voice Camille has ever heard. 'He's a killer and a suspected rapist. The sooner he's off the streets, the better. But I'm sure you agree,' he says, looking at Catherine, then glances at his watch. 'And we've still got to interview our star witness.' Catherine raises an inquisitive eyebrow. 'Lucy,' Richard adds with a straight face but by now he seems to be sweating a tad more than usual. 'It can't wait and I need Camille with me.'

Camille fights back the urge to laugh. And the urge to kiss him.

'Lucy who?' Catherine asks, folding her arms.

'Glass,' Camille answers, drawing her attention away from Richard and giving him a few seconds to breathe. 'Lucy Glass.'

A grin tugs at Richard's lips but every trace of amusement is quickly erased when Catherine looks back at him. 'I've never heard of her.'

'Oh, she's not local,' he explains.

'She's just arrived to Saint Marie,' Camille adds.

Catherine's gaze shifts between her daughter and the Inspector but after a few tense seconds, her expression softens. She gives in. 'Fine,' she says with a defeated wave of her hand.

Camille manages to restrain herself and gives Catherine a quick kiss. 'Thanks, _Maman_.'

'Go,' she shoos them away. 'Investigate.'

She doesn't have to tell them twice. She watches as the pair walks off and a small, satisfied smile forms on her face.

Camille waits until they reach a safe distance but then she can't contain her joy and relief any longer. She halts, turns and is about to throw her arms around him but Richard backs away, alarmed. 'What are you doing?' he asks.

She lets out a helpless laugh. 'I just want to hug you.'

'Oh.' He clears his throat and relaxes a bit but keeps his distance.

He doesn't seem to want to let her touch him, so she lowers her arms. 'Either way, thank you.'

'Well,' he says and resumes walking. She follows. 'You can thank me by driving me home.'

'Sure.'

'By the way, you also cost me a not completely undrinkable cup of tea, and…'

'I'll make you tea!' she interrupts in a raised, frustrated voice. It stops him in his tracks and they stare at each other.

A handful of mute seconds tick by, then: 'Thank you,' he says quietly, making it nearly impossible for her to stay mad at him – that is, unless he speaks again. Wisely, he opts for silence and they continue their way back to the station without further arguments.

* * *

When they arrive, he doesn't dare look for the newspaper but after they get in the car, Camille drops it in his lap. She gives him a pen too, and he completes the crossword with a satisfied little smile.

'Happy?' she asks.

His smile vanishes. 'I'm beside myself,' he replies in a flat tone. She chuckles. 'Now drive,' he instructs her and she starts the car.

* * *

He's on the small verandah, fussing with Lucy when she joins him and gives him his tea.

'Thank you,' he says and she clinks her beer bottle against his cup.

'So,' she says after a few sips, 'what did the "star witness" say?'

Richard smiles and gently runs his fingers over Lucy's cylindrical body. She never thought she'd be jealous of a tele— _a precision optical instrument_. 'Well, she provided me with a better insight into Mr. Hunter,' he says and Camille raises an eyebrow. Her half-amused, half-confused expression prompts Richard to explain. 'A.K.A. Orion,' he says with a smile in his voice, glancing up.

She chuckles softly.

He takes a deep breath. 'It really is the most beautiful winter constellation. Quite fascinating, too.'

He's still looking up but she's watching another fascinating constellation. A constellation of slightly mussed hair, Englishness, and awkward limbs.

'Do you see it?' he asks.

When she doesn't reply, he tears his gaze away from the night sky, puts his cup down and steps closer to guide her. She doesn't protest.

'There,' he points. 'His shoulders: Betelgeuse – it's brilliant red – and Bellatrix,' he explains. 'The female warrior,' he adds with a small smile.

'His feet: Saiph and Rigel. And in the middle, his Belt: a string of blue supergiants. Mintaka, Alnilam and Alnitak.' He tilts his head, pursing his lips. 'Well, it's more of an hourglass like shape, really, but…' His show and tell deteriorates into silence when he finds her watching him.

She has a strange look on her face he can't quite decipher, so he tries to keep talking and make her not look at him like _that._ 'It's… it's up there, Camille.'

Well, he tried.

But her eyes remain on him. He clears his throat, trying desperately to think of something to say. 'You know, he was told to be a er… a great hunter… this…' he awkwardly points up, then clasps his hands behind his back. '… Orion fellow.'

'Until he was killed by a tiny little scorpion,' she says.

'Well, that's one version,' he says, rubbing his palms on his thighs. The air seems to be getting hotter - if that's even possible. 'But we don't have any conclusive evidence or reliable witness statements, so…' he smiles faintly and shrugs, then glances back up at the stars. His mind is racing. He can no longer focus.

All of a sudden he's acutely aware of every sign of her presence. Her body heat. Her scent. The quiet sound of her breathing. The soft rustling of her dress. And the faint touch of her skin when her hand brushes against his – definitely not by accident.

She carefully watches him for his reaction. He doesn't flinch away. He peers at her and she slowly, gently takes his hand into hers. 'Camille…' he says but doesn't know how to continue. Her thumb rubs the back of his hand. It's a terrifyingly pleasant sensation. He enjoys her company and her attention but he shuts down.

She doesn't want to push him, so she lets go of his hand. He sighs but when he looks at her, she's smiling. 'What is it?' he asks.

She shakes her head. 'You.'

'Me?'

'Sometimes I'm this close to strangling you but then there's moments like this when…' and she trails off.

He waits eagerly. But she doesn't finish her sentence. Why didn't she finish it? It's rude and annoying. _Finish it, Camille_, he pleads in silence.

She bites her lip. 'Never mind.' She's about to turn away but his voice stops her.

'Tell me.'

She looks back and regards him for a long moment. 'It's complicated.'

'I like complicated.'

'Oh do I know that,' she says with an eye roll and a smile.

And he smiles back. It's a rare smile. A kind smile. The sort that touches the eyes.

It's because of her.

For her.

'Tell me, Camille,' he repeats softly. His obsessive-compulsive streak is acting up again. An unfinished sentence. A missing piece. A question mark. He can't have that. And maybe, just maybe, she will say what he would say to her if he were better at it. If he were braver.

She thinks about it, then: 'How about I show you?' she asks.

He blinks. Thinks. Tries to put on a brave face. His mind is racing his heart.

The heart wins. 'Okay.'

She moves closer. Reaches for him. He instinctively tenses. Her hands touch and slide up his chest – it's filled with warm, rapid heartbeats, vibrating through fabric against her palms. With two fistfuls of shirt she gently pulls him even closer. Then her fingers release him and continue to travel up, over his shoulders, around his neck and up into his hair, unwinding some of the tightness in his body.

She pulls him in for a light kiss. He tastes like tea. She tastes like beer and cherry - odd, he thinks. Probably her lip balm. That's his last conscious thought for a while. Her lips barely leave his when he tilts his head and kisses her back. It's a gentle kiss but every subsequent one gets longer, deeper and hungrier. He slowly runs his hands up and down her bare arms, his fingertips caressing her skin. Her breathing quickens and she gets goose bumps. At first he's maddeningly restrained and cautious but he gains more confidence by each second. Her fingers rake his hair and she feels a slight twitch in his shoulder – a pleasant shiver coursing through him. Then his arms slide around her waist, pulling her against him.

When they break the kiss, she rests her forehead against his. She's breathless and smiling. He's flushed and reeling. They hold onto each other for a while. Her hand drifts down and she laces her fingers with his. She steps back, gazing at him with a smile, then turns, pulling him with her.

And with uncertain anticipation, he follows her inside.


	3. Sand

3 - **SAND**

******Disclaimer: **not mine.

* * *

She is fit and fast. He is persistent and catching up. The rising waves push and pull against her legs, and his shoes are filling up with wet sand.

The odds are evening out.

She hears him yelling but can't make out his words. He hears her laughing but doesn't quite understand her happiness – nor the thrill that's taken hold of him amidst this pain- and joyful beach sprinting madness. He's never felt anything quite like this before.

As the waves retreat, he gets closer again. He lunges for her. She screams and laughs, avoiding his hand by mere inches. She playfully splashes water at him and he recoils - a little too late -, stumbling backwards.

At least he manages to retrieve his balance.

With a sleeve still dry, he wipes water off his face and she laughs. 'Just wait until I get you,' he yells over the loud sea, pointing a finger at her.

'Oh, I'm waiting,' she yells back, toying with him - merciless, laughing, infuriating, and beautiful.

Another fat wave creeps in, forcing him to back away even further. She starts running. Barely, but he keeps up. He will chase her around Saint Marie if that's what it takes. What _it_ is, he's no longer sure. His lungs hurt but his heart refuses to forfeit. He tastes salt on his lips and her laughter rings in his ear, mixing with the noise of green waves, rushing blood and drum-like heartbeats. He keeps crossing the ever-moving, messy line between sand and sea, but she always seems to be just beyond his reach.

He's too cautious. Too afraid.

After a few yards, however, he decides to chance ending up in the water – or worse. There might be an army of toothy, spiky, deadly things lying in wait but she will be there with him, too.

And with her around, anxiety no longer gets to grasp him so tightly.

All of a sudden, luck and the elements side with him. She lets out a joyful scream as his arm hooks around her waist. He lifts and pulls her away from the water. But he's exhausted. And he trips.

He stumbles, he falls, pulling her with him.

He lands on the mushy ground with a muffled, wet thud and a groan. She lands on top of him with a sharp cry of laughter. He's desperate for air and, at first, doesn't seem to take much notice of the gross amount of nature surrounding him – nor the body pressed against his.

She is giggling uncontrollably. He is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath her. 'I…' he tries to speak but can't.

Playfully, she leans closer. 'What? I can't hear you.'

'Switch… it… back!' he demands weakly, his words and cluttered breaths mashing together like sand and sea.

She looks down at him, her breathing already normalizing. 'No,' she refuses. It's a "no" full of smiling and teasing.

Sharp green meets soft brown.

Then his head falls back on the sand. He closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath. 'I won,' he squeezes out.

'Oh, I beg to differ.'

She's got a point – one which he's only beginning to fully comprehend. She's shifted a bit to let him breathe freely but she's still straddling his thighs and pinning him to the sand.

_Sand._

His eyes pop open. He is starting to freak out. 'Camille…'

He doesn't have to say more. She already knows. 'It is just sand.' He opens his mouth to voice his disagreement but she cuts him off. 'Or shall I call an ambulance?' Her mocking appears to resonate with him and he swallows his bitter complaints with a frown. Besides, there's another priority.

Air. He needs more air. A lot more.

His hand reaches for his tie. 'Let me,' she tells him and after a moment of hesitation, he lets her. Their hands brush and her fingers pull apart the knot. The tie slides off from around his neck and she undoes the top two buttons on his shirt. 'Better?' she asks.

_Yes._ 'No.'

'Liar.'

They are two tangled bodies glued together by sand and a new-found peculiarity: an unwillingness to move. He's exhausted, he tells himself but it's not the only reason keeping him stuck in wet dirt. A pleasant, warm weight helps, too. His right hand rests on her left calf. He might not be aware of it but she most definitely is. His fingers lightly stroke her skin.

Or maybe he is aware of it.

He glances up at her and her giggling quiets down. It's a brief moment full of sand, breathing and wanting. He watches her. Studies her with a mixture of mild apprehension, hesitant need, and keen interest. Slowly, her hand touches his face and she gently tries to brush some sand off of his cheek.

She ends up smearing it with even more.

And he freaks out. 'Camille!'

'I'm sorry.' She isn't really. She's giggling again. Her focus wavers and he doesn't hesitate. He grabs her wrists and with one swift move, he rolls her over.

Now it's her turn to get pinned between a warm body and the soft ground but she isn't complaining. Her laughter retreats into a quiet, bright smile. 'Not bad,' she compliments him.

'When you're the smallest in school, you pick up some skills,' he explains, still somewhat breathless. She could flip him back to his back but decides to let him enjoy this little moment of triumph.

He's earned it.

But he doesn't abuse her kindness. Soon he's back on his feet, offering her his hand. She takes it with a grin – never one to miss an opportunity to touch him. He pulls her up but his sandy grasp lingers – as does his gaze. For a short while. Then he pulls back his hand and glances away, clearing his throat. 'We should probably head back,' he says, looking in his shack's direction.

'Yes,' she agrees, brushing some sand off of her clothes. 'Here.' She hands him his tie and he accepts it with a small nod.

* * *

When they get back, Fidel and Dwayne are nowhere to be found. She walks up to the veranda with him in tow. There's a small piece of paper pinned to the door. He takes it off and reads it out loud. '"Went to get more beer." Hm.' He notes it with pursed lips, then glances at her. 'Well, another mystery solved,' he declares. She chuckles and starts to walk inside.

'No, no, no, wait! Wait!'

She turns back. 'What?'

'I'd prefer it if most of the sand stayed outside,' he explains.

She rolls her eyes but indulges him. She starts brushing it out of her hair and off of her clothes and skin. He takes off his shoes and socks, then untucks his shirt.

She goes still with surprise. 'What are you doing?' she asks, a grin already forming on her face.

He stops, too, and looks at her with furrowed brows. Then he gets it and rolls his eyes. 'Don't worry. I'm not undressing.'

Teasingly, she raises an eyebrow.

He gives her a pointed look, then proceeds to shake sand out of the creases in his shirt, demonstrating why he needed to untuck it. She steps closer and brushes off his shoulders, then playfully ruffles his hair and chuckles - it's quiet and soft like the fingers combing through his hair. Sand is everywhere. He hesitates at first, then his hand reaches for her. She's missed a few spots, too. Carefully and awkwardly, he helps to clean off those sandy parts. Her shoulder, her arms, then… his hand freezes for a brief moment but a smile lets him know it's okay. His thumb caresses her cheek, then the back of his index finger gently trails down and along her neck, making her pulse quicken.

'We're back!' Dwayne yells from a distance.

Richard withdraws his hand but his eyes remain on Camille, and Camille's on him - both trying to enjoy this moment for a little while longer.

'We bought more beer.' Fidel's voice is coming from somewhere inside now.

Camille runs her hand along Richard's arm, giving him one last caress, then turns to join the others. He follows her with a slight frown on his face.

A frown that now hides a smile.


	4. Ex

4 - **EX**

**Disclaimer: **not mine.

* * *

He's leaning back in his chair, fiddling with a small, colourful ball he found on Fidel's desk the other day. It's probably one of Rosie's toys.

Well, it was.

Now it's Richard's.

He cautiously throws the ball up in the air and catches it.

He waits a few seconds, gently cradling the toy in his fingers, then tries throwing it higher

He catches it again and a smug little grin curves his lips.

Emboldened by his newfound dexterity, he throws the small ball up to the ceiling. It bounces back faster and at a different angle than anticipated. Determined to outmanoeuvre the unruly toy, Richard leans even further back in the chair but he loses his balance. In his panic he tries to grab for something. Anything. He reaches the keyboard but it's too late.

A loud crash arouses Dwayne from his nap. He jerks awake, blinking, squinting, trying to orient himself. He instinctively glances towards Richard's desk but the Inspector isn't there.

'Chief?'

No answer – only a faint groan coming from the other end of the room.

Concerned, Dwayne rises to his feet. 'You okay there, Chief?'

In his hurry to get up, Richard bumps his head into the underside of the desk top. The pens and pencils make a clatter-y jump in their holder. 'Yes.' He lets out a nervous little laugh. 'Splendid! I just…' He suddenly pops up behind his desk and slowly, sheepishly puts the keyboard down. 'I…' he tries again, then awkwardly shows Dwayne the small ball and clears his throat. 'I was just looking for this.'

Dwayne nods, clearly trying his best not to laugh. 'Slow day, huh?'

Richard frowns, rubbing the back of his head. 'Yes, indeed.'

As if on cue, Camille walks in and Richard quickly hides the small toy in his palm. 'Good morning.'

'Morning,' he greets her back.

'What are you doing here?!' Dwayne asks, mock-scolding her.

'I know, I know. I just…' she trails off as her eyes find Richard again. Her brow crinkles. His hair is messy, his trousers are covered with dusty grey patches, his tie is crooked, and he's rubbing his back. 'Are you okay?'

The Inspector throws her a confused look: why wouldn't he be okay?

She is spending yet another day with an ex boyfriend – from _France_ of all places. Nothing good has ever come from that country. _Anton_ arrived three days ago. Three days. An eternity. 'I'm fine,' Richard assures her, then realizes what prompted her question and abruptly stops rubbing his back.

'He dropped his ball,' Dwayne explains under his breath with a barely suppressed grin and Camille chuckles softly.

Richard flashes him an sullen glare. 'Yes, thank you, Dwayne.' He glances back at Camille and finds her staring at him. 'It's er…' She raises an eyebrow and his shoulder twitches. 'I was just… you know…' he trails off and mimics throwing the ball, then shrugs.

She chuckles. 'Still no new case, I suspect?'

'No,' Dwayne says with a sigh. 'Not even a stolen coconut.'

'Well,' Richard clasps his hands behind his back. 'There's the er… mystery of your presence here on your day off,' he says with a clumsy little smile that vanishes the second he catches Dwayne grinning at him with raised eyebrows.

'I left some brochures and tickets in my drawer,' Camille explains, already moving towards her desk.

'Ah.' He tries to accompany this with a casual smile. He tries not to sound disappointed, either. He tries.

Brochures, tickets, traipsing around to absorb some local culture. It is something they do – did – together. At least he thought it was. All that island-themed ridiculousness she dragged him through in that boiling heat has curiously distilled into a semi-pleasant memory, but now he feels it's been cheapened in a rather hurtful way.

He feels the urge to say something but he doesn't know what or how. She rummages around and finds the brochures. He watches her, then drifts closer. 'So…'

When he doesn't say more, she looks up. 'How's… _Anton_?' Even his name tastes bitter - French and bitter - like burnt onion soup.

She resumes her search for the tickets. 'Well… _he_ loves Saint Marie,' she says and throws him a look.

'Of course,' Richard remarks, his voice brimming with sarcasm. It just slips out. Camille's head snaps up, her furrowed brows expecting an explanation. 'I mean…' He clears his throat. 'What's not to love?' he asks and tries to appease her with a weak smile but she doesn't buy it. She's been somewhat weird with him lately - definitely more temperamental than usual.

She fixes him with a look. 'According to you? Everything.'

He swallows. 'Well, er… that's an oversimplification.'

She straightens up, now in full confrontational mode. 'Oh, really?'

Dwayne watches them with great interest and a hint of a smile on his face. Nobody can ruffle Camille's temper quite like the Chief does – so quickly, so spectacularly and with so little effort.

Richard doesn't back down. 'Really.'

'Then name one thing you love here,' she demands, her accent blurring her words. She points her index finger at him for emphasis. 'Just one.'

There's something else in her voice besides anger. It's in her eyes, too. Something thick and heavy and sharp.

It tears into him. Claws its way in. Then rushes straight to his heart.

His pulse quickens. Her intense gaze pins him down, stifling the slippery, immature urge to throw the truth in her face – to scream it, to let it all out crudely, once and for all. He stares at her, palms sweaty, mouth dry and mutely moving, trying to form various words.

Three in particular.

Then one specific.

Nothing comes out.

'Exactly,' she assesses his wordless struggle, then dismisses it with an annoyed wave of her hand. She might as well have slapped him across the face. She glances around, avoiding his eyes. 'Have you seen a pair of tickets somewhere?' she asks Dwayne with a sigh.

He shakes his head, then his gaze shifts back to his boss. Camille's attention slowly drifts back to him, too. She looks a tad guilty but doesn't apologise. He doesn't expect her to.

He regards her for a moment, then a quiet "no" tumbles off his lips.

Frowning, she slams the drawer shut. 'I'll be right back,' she says, throwing him one last look, then rushes out.

Richard and Dwayne exchange a glance, then each wanders back to his own desk. A few silent minutes pass.

'Chief?'

'Yes, Dwayne?'

There's a long moment filled with the whooshing noise of spinning fans and the static silence of courage mustering. Then:

'Tell her, Chief.'

Richard looks over at him sharply. 'Tell whom what?' he asks, irritated that Dwayne dares to broach this subject and scared that he's seen enough to do so.

Dwayne knows he's wandered onto thin ice. He watches his boss carefully and Richard stares back, tense and defensive. 'Tell her, Chief,' he repeats – calmly, kindly, simply – clearly meaning well, then goes back to sorting a huge, messy stack of old files.

Richard sighs.

Tell her. Right. As if it were that simple. It is everything but and completely inappropriate to boot – even here in the laid-back Caribbean, he imagines. He can already picture the Commissioner blindsiding him outside the station to inform him that one of them has been transferred. The possibility twists his heart in an icy grasp. He rubs his face and walks over to the coffee machine to pour himself a cup. Or two. He already feels drained and it's not even noon yet.

The next minutes crawl by as the rest before them – filled with fuzzy boredom and marring indecision. Richard tries to busy himself with a book but it's not engaging enough to calm his mind. Thoughts crash in his head and hot air swirls around him. He's restless. He fidgets. He glances at her desk. He loosens his tie. Nothing helps. He glances towards the door. Why isn't she back yet?

He flips a page. He can't recall what he's read so far and he doesn't see what's on the page he's staring at, either. He touches the scar on his temple. A memento carved into skin by a dustbin lid. A small crack in his armour of stubbornness. He traces it with a fingertip and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly Dwayne appears by his desk, towering above him. 'Chief?'

Richard peers up, praying it isn't another advice.

'Would you mind if I stepped out for a bit?' Richard stares at him blankly. 'I won't be long.'

Richard stares some more, checks his watch, frowns, sighs, then: 'Go.'

Dwayne flashes a grateful smile. 'Thanks, Chief.'

And with that, he's gone, too.

Alone, Richard looks around the room. In the pulsing, hot silence an idea occurs to him. It's definitely not one of his best and brightest. Camille would probably kill him if she found out, but now it's like an intense itch that demands to be scratched. He puts down the book and picks up the keyboard's cable that his unceremonious fall has yanked out of the computer. He crouches down to plug it back in.

He's still crouching, looking for the USB port, when he hears a faint knocking. It's followed by a male voice coated with a thick French accent. 'Is anybody here?'

Richard quickly straightens up, suppressing a groan. Pain coils around his spine like barbed wire. 'Can I help you?' he asks the stranger.

The younger man walks in and approaches him. 'Yes, sorry. I'm looking for Camille. She said she was coming here.'

Richard furrows his brow. 'And you are?'

'Anton. Anton Roueche.' Richard's jaw clenches. 'A friend of Camille's,' Anton adds with a friendly enough smile and offers his hand. 'She might have mentioned me.'

Richard hesitates briefly before taking his hand. 'Yes. Richard Poole.'

There's a spark of recognition in Anton's eyes. 'That Richard Poole?'

'Er… I don't know. How many of us are there?'

Anton chuckles. 'Camille's boss?'

Camille's boss doesn't even crack a smile. 'That's me.'

A knowing grin spreads across Anton's face. 'Yes. She talks a lot about you.'

Richard nods curtly. 'That I can imagine.' He can indeed and it's not a happy image. They probably laugh at him or worse, _she_ does, and the thought slices through him like a rusty, jagged knife.

'Do you know where she is?' Anton asks.

For the first time in his life, Richard is thrilled about not knowing the answer. 'No idea, sorry.'

'Ah.' Anton glances around a bit helplessly. He's clasping something in his right hand. 'Would you er… would you mind if I waited here?' the younger man asks, drawing Richard's attention away from the curious object.

The Inspector's first instinct is to send the bothersome Frenchman on his merry way but another idea occurs to him. He chalks it up to the heat and acute boredom. 'Have a seat,' he says, gesturing to an empty chair in front of his desk. 'May I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Water?'

'Water would be great. Thank you,' Anton says, sitting down.

Richard crosses to the fridge and takes out a bottle of water. He grabs a clean mug, carefully wipes it with a paper towel, then pours. He brings it back to Anton who accepts it gratefully.

Richard settles back in his desk chair and winces.

'Back pains?' Anton asks between two sips.

'I'm fine.'

'I could take a look at it if you want.' Richard shoots him a wary look. 'I'm a doctor,' Anton adds, clarifying.

'And I'm fine,' Richard repeats, leaning back in the chair. He fixes the good doctor with a stare – it's cold green and piercing. 'So… _doctor,_ how long have you known Camille?'

'A little over 5 years now.'

'Ah.' Anton nods with a smile. Richard tilts his head. 'You met in Paris?'

'Yes,' the younger man replies. He drains his mug, then places it on the desk. 'She is an amazing woman.'

'Hm.' Richard stares at the empty mug, pondering, then his eyes find Anton again. The doctor seems to be struggling with something. 'Yes?' Richard prompts him.

'May I ask a favour, Inspector?'

Richard raises eyebrows at that. 'That depends.'

Anton reveals the small object he's been hiding in his palm and places it on Richard's desk. It is an expensive-looking engagement ring box. 'Would you keep this safe for me until I get back?'

Richard is hit by an icy rush of confusion. He stares at the square black object and feels that rusty, jagged knife twist in his heart. He knows he's jumping to conclusions - that is, a very specific and painful conclusion - but he can't seem to help it. Camille's been acting strange… _distant_. Maybe this little box is the reason why.

'Inspector?'

Richard tears his gaze away from the box and clears his throat. 'Sorry?'

'Would you mind if I left this here? Just for a few hours.'

Richard stares at him, his thoughts staggering in a rising tide of emotion. He swallows, trying to pull himself together. 'No,' he squeezes out with a small, forced smile.

Anton smiles and says something but Richard doesn't hear him. Logic blurs and falters in the vacuum of sudden panic. But its hold doesn't last. The cold wave retreats. Sounds flood in once again – something about the market and hats and a volcano – and he inhales. A question drags itself up from the turmoil – one question to clarify the situation. But it dies on his lips and sinks back, leaving an ashen taste in its wake. Uncertainty contains a scenario the truth may not. One in which it's not too late to speak up. One in which he still has a chance to be heard. He finds himself clinging to the question mark with the same manic strength that under normal circumstances drives him to dispel it.

Camille enters the office with the tickets in her grasp.

Hearing her steps, Anton turns in his seat. 'Ah, there you are!'

Richard automatically rises to his feet but doesn't say anything. He stares at her and Camille stares back.

'I see you two have met,' she says, breaking the silence, and her attention shifts to Anton.

'Yes,' the doctor replies cheerfully. 'And don't worry. He's been very nice,' he adds with a good natured smile and a small nod to the Inspector.

Camille's eyes find Richard's again. She raises an eyebrow at him. 'Is that so?'

Richard clears his throat. 'Yes.' He tugs at his shirt cuff. He realises he's still standing, so he awkwardly sits back down with a frown.

'Are you sure you're okay, Inspector?' Anton asks, looking genuinely concerned, which irritates Richard even more.

'Yes, thank you.'

Camille regards him briefly. He seems more annoyed than anything else, and she knows it's better not to push him when he's like that. 'We should get going,' she tells Anton.

'Right. Of course.' The younger man rises to his feet, then slides the little box closer to Richard. 'Thank you, Inspector. It was a pleasure to finally meet you.'

Richard offers him a strained smile and a mute nod – the pleasure was all Anton's.

The pair makes their way to the door. Before exiting, Camille looks back but Richard has already buried himself in his book. She opens her mouth to say something but then changes her mind.

He waits until she leaves. His gaze drifts from the page and settles on the small box. It is silent and mocking in its elegant blackness. He stares at it for a while, his anxious curiosity mounting. He snaps the book closed, grabs the offending little object and angrily shoves it into a drawer.

Out of sight, out of mind.

If only.

He looks at the empty mug Anton has left on his desk. He hesitates for a few seconds, then gets up to refill his coffee cup.

* * *

Dwayne arrives back to the distinctive noises of someone turning the station upside down. Seemingly out of nowhere, Richard halts to a stop in front of him. He's wearing latex gloves and a slightly off expression on his face – the kind he gets whenever he's close to a solution.

Or a heatstroke.

Dwayne is never quite sure which will follow.

'Chief?'

'Where's the print kit?'

'We have a new case?'

'Yes. Well… not exactly.' Dwayne looks at him slightly confused. 'I just…' he trails off and wipes his brow of sweat. He is flushed and jittery.

'Are you okay, Chief?'

Frustration rises off of Richard like steam. 'Why does everyone keep asking me that?'

Dwayne seems ready with the answer. 'Well…'

But Richard loses his patience. 'Just tell me where the bloody kit is.'

'Fidel must have left it in the car.'

Richard takes a deep breath and wipes his face with his shirt sleeve. 'Thank you.' And with that, he marches out, leaving Dwayne looking puzzled and mildly concerned.

After a few moments, however, he reappears. 'Where's the car, Dwayne?' he asks with forced calmness.

'Oh, right! At the mechanic. The clutch was acting up again,' Dwayne replies, seemingly oblivious to the Chief's rapidly mounting frustration.

'Could you go and get the kit?'

'Sorry, Chief. She closes the shop at noon on Fridays.'

Richard stares at him, stewing silently. 'Marvellous,' he declares and walks back inside. Suddenly, he stops and looks back at Dwayne. 'She?'

'Yes. She's very good,' Dwayne says, then a huge grin spreads across his face. 'She's also—'

'I don't want to know,' Richard interrupts, raising his hands for further emphasis, then hurries back to his desk.

* * *

Richard sits in silence. He's scraping off the core of a pencil with a knife. Dwayne walks past his desk with a batch of files and stops to watch. Richard holds up a mug by its handle and carefully sprinkles it with the graphite powder.

Dwayne leans closer. 'Isn't that one of ours?' he asks, referring to the mug.

Richard glances up. 'Are you finished with the files?'

Dwayne straightens up and frowns at the batch in his hands. 'Fidel is so much better at this sort of thing, Chief,' he tries but Richard can't be swayed.

'Well, Fidel isn't here today, is he?' He picks up a paintbrush and gently spreads the powder around. A clear print is starting to take shape. 'And you are doing an excellent job, Dwayne. I've checked while you were out.'

Dwayne glances at Richard's cup on the desk. He's been drinking a lot of coffee. 'What are you doing, Chief?'

The paintbrush stills. Richard peers up. 'What does it look like I'm doing?'

'Nothing that makes any sense.' The green gaze hardens. 'Sir,' Dwayne adds and Richard's attention switches back to the mug. Soon a grin crosses his face. He gently blows on the print to remove any excess powder. 'Perfect.'

'I met Camille and her friend at the market,' Dwayne remarks, his tone casual, his intent clear.

'Tape,' Richard says without looking up, gesturing to the dispenser.

Dwayne holds it up for him. 'He seems nice,' Dwayne continues.

Richard forcefully rips off a piece of tape. 'Thank you,' he says, his words strained and measured.

'He's a bigshot doctor, you know.'

Richard's face twitches but he doesn't say anything. He carefully smooths the tape over the print.

'With a terrible taste in hats,' Dwayne says, musing, and slowly driving Richard insane. 'But a great taste in women,' he adds with a grin that shrinks when he finds the Chief's eyes boring into him in deadly silence.

'When you're finished,' Richard says, his tone venomous, and gestures to the files with a nod of his head, 'you can start alphabetising them.'

Dwayne sighs and gives up. 'Yes, Chief.'

* * *

He's standing still, with a half-empty water bottle in one hand and the bottle cap in the other. The cool sea breeze helps ease the headache and weariness his afternoon caffeine high has left in its wake.

He doesn't hear her approaching from behind. He's watching the waves creep in, then retreat.

She's surprised to find him outside. She sees his shoulders rise and fall with a big sigh. 'Are you planning to swim back to England?' she asks.

He doesn't look at her but hears the smile in her voice. 'Can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind.'

For a while they stand side by side in the sand, staring at the sea.

'I hear you had Dwayne re-organise our filing system.'

'I had him _organise_ it,' he corrects her, his gaze still fixed on the waves.

'I think you've traumatised him a little.'

Richard raises the bottle to his lips. 'He'll thank me later,' he says, then takes a sip. For some reason he still won't look at her. He's clammed up.

'So… how was your day?' she tries.

'Well… you know…' He sighs, shrugs but doesn't say more. It's best not to say more. He'd love to forget all about it.

'That good, huh?'

He fights the smile but loses, then finally steals a glance at her. 'How was yours?'

She briefly ponders her answer. 'Interesting.'

He nods but she doesn't elaborate either.

He stomps his foot, absently pushing some sand around. 'You can just tell me, you know,' he prompts her after a long moment of silence.

She furrows her brows. 'Tell you what?'

His eyes find hers again. 'I know there's a party going on at your mother's bar, Camille.' He heard them on his way home. The cheering, the clapping and the congratulations. 'And I know why.'

'You know about the proposal?'

He nods. He looks hurt. 'I was guarding the ring while you were out and about with…' he makes a semi-dismissive gesture with his bottle, '… _Anton.'_

She studies him and the realisation dawns on her. A small smile curves her lips. 'You don't like him much, do you?'

She's toying with him again. His jaw muscles clench but he remains silent. He looks away and takes another sip of his water. His throat feels tight but he forces it down.

'Maybe you should get to know him better,' she suggests.

Richard scoffs at that and the bottle cap he's been fiddling with slips from his grasp. He bends down to pick it up but winces as he straightens.

'Or you could at least let him have a look at your back. He's a—'

He cuts her off. 'A bigshot doctor, yes, I know.' He knows he sounds childish and bitter but he can't bring himself to care anymore. 'Graduated top of his class and the _French_ Society of Orthopaedic Surgery has been enthusing over his brilliance ever since.'

She narrows her eyes at him. 'And… how do you know _that?'_

Richard remains silent and avoids her gaze.

Camille gets suspicious. 'Did you run a background check on him?'

He hesitates. 'No.' It is, of course, a lie. A terrible one at that. He knows. But maybe just this once she lets it slide.

She doesn't. She raises her voice. 'Wait a minute! Dwayne said you were messing around with a mug all day. Did you run his prints, too?'

Richard looks at her, his frustration bubbling to the surface. 'You just said I should get to know him better. Well, I did.'

Her eyes go wide with anger and surprise. 'Why would you even do such a thing?'

His temper flares, matching hers. 'Why?' He turns to face her. 'Because people lie, Camille.' The raw vulnerability in his tone and eyes dulls her anger instantly. 'They lie all the time,' he continues, 'and I wasn't about to let you sail off with him without at least making sure he was who he claimed to be.'

The sudden intensity of his confession silences both of them.

'You think he proposed to me.' Her words are soft and quiet, her gaze intent, searching his face.

Hope wells up in him - insecure, anxious, cruel hope. 'Well… didn't he?' he asks, his voice rough and sullen, his anger already subsiding.

'No, he didn't.' She waits a few seconds for it to sink in, then: 'But if he had…' He abruptly looks away and she steps closer. 'Richard.' Her closeness pulls his gaze back - as if she were made of magnets and he of iron filings. His green eyes flash intensely, meeting her calm brown ones. 'But if he had,' she repeats, 'I would have said no.'

He still doesn't seem convinced. 'Why?'

She doesn't say but her silence is not enough. He needs to know for sure. He needs to understand.

'He's got the… looks, the charm, the job. Isn't that what women want?' She still doesn't react. 'The er…_full package_?' he adds with air quotes and she has to fight back a smile. She just watches him. 'What?' he asks, increasingly self-conscious and impatient.

'Love doesn't work like that, Richard,' she tells him and he just looks at her in silence, his expression mildly confused and almost child-like. 'You don't just check things off a list and automatically fall in love if everything's there.'

He tilts his head. 'How does it work then?' he asks, his voice quiet and borderline timid.

She holds his gaze. 'I'm not sure. I guess it just… happens?'

'Oh well, that's er…' he trails off, stares at his sand covered shoes, '… really, very unhelpful, Camille,' he says, glancing back up and narrows his eyes. 'Are you sure you're French?' he teases.

She chuckles and he cracks a smile. 'Only half-French.'

He regards her, biting the inside of his lip to contain a grin. 'Right.' She can't stop smiling and it sets alight his rib cage. 'It's starting to make sense now.'

'So… are you coming?' she asks.

He raises his eyebrows.

'To the party,' she clarifies.

'Oh no. No, thank you. It's not really my scene, you know.' She knows. She nods but he can tell she's slightly disappointed. He turns back to stare at the sea.

'Let's have dinner instead,' he suggests out of the blue. The idea just occurred to him and he quickly voiced it before he could chicken out.

She isn't sure she heard it right. 'Er… us as in… the team?' she asks. She needs to make sure before she gets her hopes up.

His courage falters. 'Yes. Sure.' But then he has another burst of bravery. 'Or…' He clears his throat. 'You know… just the two of us. We,' he offers. 'You and me,' he adds, making her smile again.

'Where?'

Now he seems lost again. 'I er… I don't know.'

She laughs softly. 'You haven't thought this through, have you?'

'No,' he admits. She laughs again and he smiles faintly. 'I haven't.'

'Wow. I guess there really is a first time for everything,' she teases and he chuckles.

Indeed there is.


	5. Wedding (ch 1)

5 - **WEDDING  
**chapter one

**Disclaimer:** not mine.

**a/n:** thank you, guys, so much for the kind words and encouragement! I hope you'll like this one, too. It's a shortie but more is coming soon-ish. :)

* * *

Catherine arrives to the table with a small smile and a large tea tray. She puts it down in front of Richard.

He briefly studies it and sighs. 'No milk, as usual,' he remarks without looking at her.

Catherine tilts her head and regards him with pursed lips and casually folded arms. 'Grumpy, as usual.'

Camille grins into her drink. Richard frowns and heaps some extra sugar in his tea.

'You know, you could be so much happier if-'

'If I had milk in my tea,' Richard interrupts, throwing an annoyed, pointed look at the older woman.

Catherine doesn't give up. 'Dispense with all this negativity and visualise positive outcomes,' she advises him with a firm, enthusiastic voice and some hand flourish that makes her jewellery bounce and jingle.

Richard looks at Camille with a distinct what-is-up-with-your-deranged-mother-this-time expression on his face. 'She's reading a new book on the power of positive thinking,' she explains with a smile.

'Another one? Oh dear,' Richard comments, stirring his tea.

'Well, it is sort of scientifically proven,' Camille teases him.

'Right.' He snorts. 'Sort of.'

'How do you explain placebos then?'

The smirk vanishes. He stares at her with narrowed eyes, trying to articulate a quick answer but before he could get the first words out, Catherine interrupts once again.

'Happy thoughts, Richard.' He glares up but it doesn't faze her. 'Attract happiness with your mind." He does no such nonsense but Catherine is clearly not one to give up easily. 'Come on! Try it!'

Richard glances over at Camille – a silent cry for help – and she lets out an exasperated sigh. 'Oh just humour her. It will be over sooner.'

He looks back at Catherine. 'Fine.' He puts down the spoon, places his palms flat against the table, straightens his back and closes his eyes.

Mother and daughter trade an amused look as the Inspector clears his throat dramatically. 'I'm visualising it now,' he announces.

Several mock-filled seconds tick by but then a guest seated at the bar signals for Catherine. She winks at Camille, then quietly walks back inside to tend to him.

A few moments later Richard opens his eyes. He glances around, squinting slightly, noting Catherine's disappearance. 'Oh look,' he says merrily, shifting his attention back to his sergeant. 'It worked.'

Camille rolls her eyes but chuckles anyway. Richard takes a sip from his tea and frowns. 'Next time try asking the Universe for some milk,' she suggests teasingly, biting on a colourful straw that peaks out of her bright green cocktail. He smirks but his gaze lingers on her lips, then travels up and meets hers.

Sounds of throat clearing followed by an all too familiar voice snaps Richard out of his reverie.

'Inspector.'

He turns in his chair to find Commissioner Patterson standing not far away, holding what appears to be a big bunch of white envelopes and a thick dossier. 'Sergeant Bordey,' Patterson greets Camille, then his gaze slides back to Richard. 'May I have a word?' Richard briefly looks back at Camille, then reluctantly rises to his feet.

His tea has gone stale by the time he gets back to their table. Camille regards him with some concern. The Commissioner's appearance tends to have that mildly unsettling effect. A mute question is etched on her face, framed by raised eyebrows. _What did he want?_

Pondering, Richard slides an envelope next to his milkless, cold tea, then glances up at her. He answers her question with a question:

'What does a wedding usher do, exactly?'

_TBC_


	6. Wedding (ch 2)

5 - **WEDDING**  
chapter two

**Disclaimer:** not mine.

**a/n:** once again, thank you all so much for reading and being so kind & awesome with the comments/reviews. It means a lot to me and I will try my best to not let you down.

* * *

Richard is leaning against his desk, tense and irritated, his eyes fixed on the white board. 'Why are we doing this?' he asks, addressing no one in particular. Dwayne is leaning back in his chair, nursing a cup of coffee and a mild hangover from the weekend. He has no intention of doing much of anything, let alone trying to come up with an answer. Fidel doesn't know what to say, either, and, noting the Inspector's foul mood, he wisely decides to remain silent.

Camille, however, does not. 'Because you said yes.'

'It's the Commissioner. What was I supposed to say?' Richard snaps at her. She glares at him and he looks away, trying to curb his frustration-induced and thoroughly misplaced anger. 'Why he asked me, I haven't a clue.' He throws the fat dossier back on his desk. It lands with a loud thud, spilling its papery guts. 'We aren't friends,' he adds quietly, staring at the board. 'I'm not sure we even qualify as acquaintances.' He takes a deep breath and his temper suddenly flares back up again. 'And Einstein's equations are simpler than this seating chart!'

Camille rises from her chair, walks over to him and leans against his desk, mirroring his position. She doesn't do anything else. She doesn't say anything, either, but her nearness slowly starts to erode some of his tension. He runs a hand across his face, rubbing it angrily. 'This is ridiculous. I'm a police detective, not a party planner.'

Camille leans back and picks up a couple of pages from the desk. She studies them, then glances up at the board. She furrows her brows and lets out a soft 'hmm'.

Richard looks at her but she doesn't seem to want to say more. And it really is annoying. 'What is it?' he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

'Well,' she says, pushing herself away from the desk. 'Instead of solving a murder, this time we can actually prevent one by not placing Aunt Bérard anywhere near Mrs. Amesbury.'

'They are several rows apart,' Richard remarks sullenly, folding his arms.

'That's not far enough,' Camille says, erasing the names.

'Both of them will be there?' Fidel asks.

Richard doesn't notice the young sergeant's surprised expression, nor the fact that Dwayne has sat up in his chair and is now actively listening.

'Well, Aunt Bérard is family and Mrs. Amesbury is a very close friend of the Commissioner. Practically family,' Camille answers, writing the names on opposite sides of the messy chart – as far away from each other as possible.

'Even after what happened?' Dwayne asks, pulling the ice pack off his forehead.

This finally grabs Richard's attention. He glances around but nobody elaborates. 'What happened?'

Dwayne volunteers to enlighten the Inspector. 'A few years back a couple of guys robbed the National Bank. They cleared out the place in minutes. Mrs. Bérard's husband worked there as a security guard. He got shot during the robbery and later died in the hospital.'

'And what's that got to do with Mrs. Amesbury? Was she one of the bank robbers?' Richard asks.

'Not quite,' Dwayne replies. 'Her husband was the bank manager at the time. The robbers got in and out so fast, it was believed they had an inside man.'

'Mr. Amesbury,' Richard suggests.

'Very likely. He vanished along with the thieves. No one knows what happened to them or the money. The Commissioner investigated the case but never believed Mr. Amesbury was involved,' Dwayne says, then leans back in his chair and slaps the ice pack back on his forehead.

'Hm,' Richard grunts softly, digesting the story as he studies the board and the two names on it.

'It's still strange that his wife has been invited,' Fidel says.

'Half the island's been invited,' Richard remarks, somewhat absent-mindedly.

Fidel can't resist it. '_And the rest are turning up anyway_.' But the chuckle dies in his throat as the Inspector's hard gaze settles on him. 'It's… it's from…' Fidel tries to explain but suddenly the phone starts ringing on his desk. He instantly grabs for it, relieved and grateful. 'Honoré police.'

Hope floods Richard. Maybe it's a new case. Maybe he will have an excuse to get out of his utterly ridiculous usher duty.

'Yes. Sure. We'll be there right away,' Fidel says, ending the call.

'What's happened?' Camille asks.

'It was Pierre. Somebody broke into his restaurant last night.'

Richard seems a bit confused. 'Pierre?'

'You know Pierre,' Camille says but Richard stares at her blankly. 'The sea food chef?'

'Oh right. "Pierre Platter" Pierre,' Richard remembers with a slight frown.

Camille nods. 'Yes.'

Fidel reaches for his cap and rises to his feet. 'Dwayne and I can take care of this, sir. It's a simple break-in. No one was hurt.'

Dwayne is about to protest but Richard beats him to it. 'No. No. No. It's all right, Fidel.' He grabs his jacket and quickly shrugs it on. 'There are no small cases, only small detectives, am I right?' he asks with a chuckle, visibly thrilled for the opportunity to get out of the station and away from that blasted seating chart – even if the destination is Pierre's sea food restaurant. 'Come on, Camille.'

'What about the wedding?' she asks, gesturing at the board.

Richard halts at the door and turns back. 'Er… I think this is more important.' She folds her arms and gives him a disapproving look. He sighs. 'It's not even a real wedding,' he tries but it doesn't seem to convince her.

'It _is_ a real wedding,' she insists.

Fidel glances at Richard, then at Camille, and then slowly sits back down. He knows exactly what's coming.

Richard steps back inside. 'No, it _isn't_.'

'Yes, it _is_.'

'The Commissioner and his wife will simply renew their vows. That's it. They didn't even bother to write new ones.'

Dwayne puts another ice pack on his forehead and Fidel slides lower in his chair.

'They have been together for 30 years and love each other just the same,' Camille says and Richard throws her an "oh-please" look. 'I think it's very sweet,' she adds.

'I think it's redundant.'

'Yes. Feelings are _so_ redundant,' she says, her tone full of sarcasm. 'Is that why you don't have any?'

Her question hits him like a fist - an unexpected, painful blow -, and the words burrow deep under thick layers of wool and cynicism. He takes a step closer. He doesn't raise his voice. There's no need. 'Like I said, I am a police officer. I don't organise parties, Sergeant Bordey. I investigate crimes and right now we have one that needs to be investigated. Everything else _can_ and _will_ wait. Do I make myself clear?'

Heavy, static silence takes hold of the station as the two stare at each other.

'Crystal,' she says after a long, tension filled moment. She grabs her purse, then marches right past Richard and out the door. He sighs, then looks at Fidel.

'If something else comes up…'

'I'll let you know right away, sir,' Fidel says - kind and respectful as always.

Richard nods. 'Yes.' He no longer seems that eager to leave. He peeks out, then looks back at Fidel. He hesitates. 'Right. Good,' he says awkwardly, then turns and walks out.

'Just another Monday in paradise,' Dwayne remarks with a sigh.

_TBC_


	7. Wedding (ch 3)

5 - **Wedding  
**(chapter three)

**Disclaimer**: not mine.

**a/n**: thanks so much for reading and being so _fantastic_, guys. I'm really happy to hear you still enjoy the ride. And you didn't jinx anything, Heavenly Faye-Faye. :) I've already worked out the "blue print" for the plot and the chapters will keep coming more or less frequently (depending on my free time), I promise. This chap focuses on character stuff - it's my crack cocaine so bear with me - but in the next one we'll finally start investigating. And we have a "re-wedding" to prepare as well, so... *rubs hands together* Richard's gonna be crazy busy and he might even get a bit emotional, too. ;)

* * *

He walks up to the Land Rover. She's sitting behind the steering wheel, staring straight ahead, waiting. He looks at her through the rolled down window. She feels his gaze but doesn't turn her head to meet it. His hand briefly hovers over the handle. There's that hesitation again - a defence mechanism as simple as that door handle. It keeps things in (or out) but just until someone starts pulling - _really_ pulling, really caring, and not minding what might spill out.

He glances up at the station, then back.

Maybe Fidel should go.

'Are you coming or not... _sir_?'

And she keeps pulling on him with angry, dangerous courage, the kind that leaves marks on heartbeats - even rusty ones, like his.

His fingers curl around the warm piece of metal and yank the door open. The hinges moan dryly.

He climbs in.

She catches a whiff of his scent.

Springs creak faintly under his weight.

There's a sigh but no usual follow-up comment on the boiling heat.

The car door shuts closed and she flinches a bit.

Then comes the nylon-y whisper of a seatbelt pulled.

Followed by a soft click.

Safety.

Then nothing.

Only their hot, pulsing, stubborn silence in the colourful, swirling noise of islanders and tourists and vendors.

They sit like this for a little while, suspended in a private vacuum of tension.

She chews on her lower lip. Part of her wants to apologise but she's still angry. At him and herself. She really shouldn't let his terminally detached Englishness get to her like that but he's already in her pores and deep under her skin, and there isn't much she can do about it. It - _he_ - can never un-happen. He is a secret she keeps in the top left hand drawer of her ribcage but now it feels like it's getting heavier by the second. It's her doing and his non-doing. Maybe it's unreasonable to expect more of him but even if he's hopeless, she can't help hoping. And hope is tricky. It can be very cruel. Hope can take its toll. Her behaviour was unprofessional - she knows that. On paper, he is her commanding officer - she is aware of that, too. But she can't think of him in strictly professional terms. He is an annoyance turned friend turned something else. Something more. She didn't realise just how much she missed him until he re-appeared in her mother's bar, luggage less and flushed and fuming and so... _him_. So impossible. And the tears came - wet patches of blurry relief and salty happiness. And the words. _It's good to have you back. _Good and heavy and so very, very maddening.

He kept his promise but he never promised more than his return. He may never will. He might not be able to.

So, perhaps, it's for the best if she doesn't say anything.

But hope is a cruel thing.

He glances in her direction and sees her fingers clench, then relax around the steering wheel. She acted in a thoroughly unprofessional manner - he knows that. But he still feels a pang of guilt, a ridiculous urge to apologise and a pressing need to voice something that's been weighing on his mind ever since his return from London. He spent those three days trying to remember how and what his life was before Saint Marie. Before the friendships, the heat and all that sand. Before _her_. The White Hart, the wet grey sky, the milk-foggy tea, the mad, metallic rush of the city - worn, trusty props of a previous existence, now strangely ill-fitting yet still comforting like those Christmas sweaters his grandmother used to knit.

He is grinding between what was and what may be, between the safety of existing and the risks of living, but, perhaps, this is not the right time to ask for her help.

Love is a cruel thing, too.

He clears his throat. 'Let's go, sergeant.' And Camille wordlessly starts up the car.

* * *

After a short and very uncomfortable drive they finally arrive at Pierre's. The always busy restaurant now seems rather deserted inside but a smaller crowd is forming nearby, hungry for sea creatures and information.

Richard warily peers at the entrance through the windshield. 'I hope we don't have to eat our way to the crime scene,' he remarks with a faint scowl.

Camille pulls the key out of the ignition. 'You don't even have to come if you don't want to.' With that, she gets out and pointedly slams the car door.

He tries to follow her but the seatbelt he's forgotten to unfasten yanks him back. 'Serg- Camille! Wait!' She doesn't. He struggles but the buckle and his hand are slippery with sweat. And she keeps on walking. The belt finally releases him and he stumbles out of the car. He's getting angry now. At her and himself. _'Sergeant Bordey_!'

She turns around. 'Yes, _sir_?'

He walks up to her but stops at a distance - it's made of stiff air and _sir_s and _Sergeant Bordey_s and Englishness and the mute clash of green and brown. But when he speaks, his voice is quiet, the anger already subsiding. 'We need to talk.' Her brow furrows and his shoulder twitches. Yes, this is definitely the worst possible moment for this and he's already regretted opening his mouth but, thankfully, her inquisitive gaze shifts away when Saint Marie's best and most troubled sea food chef makes his appearance.

Pierre's relief upon seeing her is unmistakeable. 'Camille! Thank you so much for coming.'

And then there's a hug, a handful of French words, and quick kisses of friendship. Simple ingredients of an effortless intimacy that has always been the expertise of others. And Richard just stands behind her, behind an invisible barrier, his jaw as tight as his grasp on his brown briefcase. The Frenchman's gaze falls on him now. "Inspector. What an honour," he remarks in barely hidden jest, and the Inspector manages a tight smile in return.

'What happened?' Camille asks.

'I'll show you,' Pierre replies, gesturing inside. Richard is about to start walking towards the restaurant but Camille turns back around and they promptly collide. Mumbled apologies are exchanged and his hand briefly touches her arm - a reflex to keep her steady. His fingertips leave gentle, ghostly traces on her skin but they are gone before she can fully register what just happened.

He steps to the left but she unintentionally mirrors his movement. Then she course corrects but so does he and, again, they almost walk into each other. 'Sorry,' he apologises for the second time and she quickly sidesteps him, ending their awkward little dance. 'I'll get the kit from the car.'

'Yes.' His affirmative is tied to a small, nervous chuckle. 'Right. Er... good idea.' But as he watches her walk off, he feels Pierre's gaze on him, so he looks at the chef.

'Is everything all right?' Pierre inquires with a faintly puzzled expression. Richard doesn't seem to understand the question. 'With Camille. She looks upset,' the Frenchman adds, crossing his arms. He sounds a tinge reproachful and his chef's whites are borderline blinding in the morning sun.

Camille forcefully kicks the car door shut and starts toward them with a kit in each hand. Richard looks at her, then glances back at Pierre and shrugs. 'She seems fine to me.'

Pierre's brow darkens. 'I hope you are better with crime scenes than you are with women, Inspector.'

Richard shoots him a mildly annoyed look. 'Well, let's find out, shall we?' he says just as Camille re-joins them and the trio makes their way inside.

TBC


	8. Wedding (ch 4)

5 - **WEDDING  
**chapter four

**Disclaimer**: not mine.  
**a/n**: so after what feels like forever, here's the next chap, guys. I hope you enjoy it and thank you, again, so much for your kind words and encouragement!

* * *

Pierre leads them to the front door of the main building and gestures at it. 'This happened.'

Camille puts down the kits and takes a closer look. The door is ajar and a chunk is missing from the yellow wooden frame. 'The lock was torn off,' she remarks. 'Hardly professional.'

'Neither is that,' Richard adds, nodding at the smashed security camera lying on the ground nearby. Camille opens one of the kits, grabs two pairs of latex gloves, and offers one pair to Richard.

He takes it and turns to the chef. 'Have you been inside?'

Pierre hesitates a bit. It's never a good sign. 'Yes.' Richard frowns as he starts to pull one glove on and Pierre looks at Camille. 'I know I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. But-'

'Have you touched anything?' Richard interrupts, drawing the Frenchman's attention back to himself.

'I pushed the freezer door shut. That's all.'

'So the intruder left it open,' Camille says.

Pierre nods. 'Both the front and the freezer door were open when I arrived.'

'You were the first one here?' Richard asks.

'Yes. I came in early today to make some preparations.'

'Early as in...?'

'Around 8 o'clock.'

'And what's missing?' Camille asks.

'Well, I only took a quick glance around but it looked like several containers had been taken from the freezer.'

'And what was inside them?' Richard inquires.

'Lobster, I think. And er... sea urchin.'

Richard lets out a small chuckle but his lingering smile is instantly erased when his eyes meet Camille's disapproving gaze. He clears his throat and looks at Pierre. 'How... terrible,' he says, squinting in the bright light, then glances back at Camille. She meets his semi-veiled sarcasm with a silent eye roll.

'I know this doesn't sound much to you, Inspector, but even one stolen container is a huge loss for me. It's very difficult to get quality product for a reasonable price these days.'

Richard snaps the other glove on, then offers a sarcasm-free nod. 'I see.' He turns to Camille. 'Well, let's go and have a look inside.'

Camille opens the door and something occurs to her. 'So the alarm didn't go off?'

Pierre shakes his head and sighs. 'One of my staff closed up yesterday. He was in a hurry and forgot to activate it. The cameras were on, though.'

'Did they catch anything?' Richard asks.

'The one outside didn't pick up much before it was knocked off. The indoor one records to a separate hard drive. The DVR is inside but it's not hooked up to a monitor and I didn't want to touch anything else,' Pierre says pointedly, 'so I haven't checked that one yet.'

'All right,' Richard says. Camille gives him a prompting look. 'Thank you,' he squeezes out but Camille is still staring at him. He isn't sure what else she wants him to say. 'We'll do our best...' He hesitates. '... Pierre,' he adds somewhat awkwardly, then steps inside. Pierre throws a confused look at Camille. She smiles with sympathy and pats the chef on the arm. 'Just wait outside, okay?'

'Sure.'

She steps in, closes the door and joins Richard. He's staring up at the corner to her left with a slight frown on his face. 'What is it?' she asks, then turns to follow his gaze.

'That camera.' She looks at it. 'It's still up and in one piece.'

'Unlike the other one outside,' she remarks.

He looks at her. 'Strange, don't you think?' He turns around, his eyes sweeping their surroundings. Every surface has been wiped clean. Pots and pans hang in a neat row from shiny steel hooks - well-organised and easy to reach. 'Why leave this intact but destroy the other ?' he wonders aloud, briefly staring at his distorted reflection in a sauté pan.

Camille pulls a drawer open and peeks inside. 'Maybe he didn't know about it,' she offers.

'Maybe,' he says and opens a cupboard, then closes it with a quiet _hmm_.

'It looks like the thief made a beeline for the freezer,' she assesses.

Hands clasped behind his back, Richard nods. 'I agree.'

She spots something on the floor and crouches down to inspect it.

'What's that?' he asks.

'Not sure,' she replies and gently scoops up some of the reddish residue with her fingertip. 'Looks like... clay, I think.'

Richard steps closer and crouches down next to her.

'It's a bit odd, right?' she asks.

'You mean in an otherwise spotless kitchen in the middle of a sandy beach?' She gives him a look. 'Yes, it is odd indeed,' he quickly agrees and hands her an evidence bag.

As she bags a sample, he catches a whiff of a faint scent. He starts sniffing, trying to identify it and its possible source. Ever so discreetly he leans closer to her but she catches him in the act. 'What are you doing?'

He recoils. 'Nothing.'

She rises to her feet and so does he. 'Did you smell me?'

'No. Yes. I er... I thought it was you.'

She furrows her brow. 'What was me?'

'Can't you smell it?'

She sniffs the air a few times. 'Yeah. It smells like...' She's trying to place the scent. 'Like sandalwood.' She glances back at him. 'It's definitely not me. I'm allergic to it.'

He regards her for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. 'Duly noted,' he says. There's something odd in his tone and she fights back the sudden urge to smile. It took one crime scene but their tense mood is finally shifting.

He steps closer to the walk-in freezer. The scent is somewhat stronger there. He pulls its steel door open. Icy air rushes out and engulfs him instantly. 'Oh dear lord,' he moans with pleasure, soaking up the cold with closed eyes. Camille grins, watching him. 'Should I leave you two alone?'

'Yes, please.'

She shakes her head, chuckling quietly. 'I'll go and check the footage from the DVR.'

'Mm-hmm.'

She starts towards the door, then turns around and studies him for a long, silent moment. 'Richard?'

He doesn't immediately react and she prepares herself for another push. Another _sir to you_. Then:

'Yes, Camille?' he asks, eyes still closed, riding an icy high but listening.

'I'm sorry... about earlier. About what I said.'

His eyes blink open but he doesn't look at her. His head bows. He stares at the floor, then something inside him gives way and the words "me too" slip out - they are mashed in a sigh but she hears him loud and clear.

And then there's silence.

But no longer the uncomfortable sort.

He notices something and crouches down, his gloved hand sliding down the side of the door as if he were caressing it. She's pretty sure he is. He's probably already named that freezer. 'I'll need the camera and another bag,' he says without looking at her.

She nods. 'Yes, sir.' But it's a different kind of _sir_ - it mingles with fresh hope and a warm smile.

She steps out to get the camera from the kit. Pierre is further away, talking with his staff members but when he sees Camille, he hurries up to her. 'Have you found anything?'

'No. Not much, not yet.'

He sighs.

'But maybe the indoor camera caught something. Where do you keep the DVR?'

'In a lock box in the cupboard by the order wheel,' he answers and watches her rummaging in the kit. 'Is everything okay?'

She looks up at him, eyebrows drawn together in amused confusion. 'You mean aside from the break-in?'

'I mean you looked a bit upset earlier.'

She shakes her head with a small smile, then nods towards inside. 'Occupational hazard.'

Pierre tilts his head. 'Do you want me to talk to him?' he teases her.

'No, I do _not_,' she says, straightening up and pointing at him with a gloved finger.

Almost as if on cue, Richard steps out. 'The camera?' Camille hands it to him and he steps back inside, only to step out again to grab the evidence bag from her hand. 'Thank you,' he says, then hurries back.

Pierre looks at Camille. 'What?' she asks with a small shrug.

'He is a very charming man.'

She crosses her arms . 'Actually, he is in his own way.'

Pierre gives her a knowing look. 'On pardonne tant que l'on aime.'

Camille lets out a half-annoyed, half-amused snort, then sidesteps the subject altogether. 'So lock box in the cupboard by the order wheel?'

Pierre nods. 'That's right,' he confirms, then gives her the key.

When she steps back inside, she sees Richard kneeling at the freezer's door. 'Have you found something?'

'It looks like a piece of a banknote,' he says as he carefully bags it, then gets to his feet and looks at the containers. 'Does Pierre keep money in the freezer by any chance?'

She steps to the order wheel. 'You'll have to ask him but I doubt it.' She opens the cupboard and surveys the cluttered mess.

Richard reluctantly closes the freezer door, then walks up to her. 'What are you looking for?'

'A DVR in a lock box,' she says but still can't find it.

'Check the top panel,' he suggests, pocketing the evidence bag.

She reaches up and feels the box. It is indeed held to the underside of the cupboard's top panel with thick hook-and-loop straps.

She looks at him. He shrugs. 'People never look up.'

She unfastens the straps and pulls out the steel box. The cables slide out immediately. She frowns and puts the box on the counter, then unlocks its front panel. Her eyebrows go up and she glances at Richard.

The DVR is missing.

_TBC_


End file.
